


taking stock

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Artistic License - Gun Safety, Clothed Sex, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Masochism, Not Canon Compliant, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Season/Series 05, Touch-Starved Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Under-negotiated Kink, Unreliable Narrator, implied suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: In the forest of the Hunt, Basira teaches Jon how to use a gun (and then some).
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 44
Collections: Femdom Exchange 2020





	taking stock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waterleveldropping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterleveldropping/gifts).



> Not technically canon compliant, since I'm fairly sure they didn't stop to rest, but it fits in nicely enough, I reckon. Jon is intended as trans, but with the way things shook out, his specific genitals are never referred to.
> 
> Thank you to Mike for beta-reading!

Much to Basira’s frustration, Martin insists on taking a break once the Hunt’s forest is behind them.

“I like to rest,” he’d told her, a little dreamy, a little distant. “Just to remember that I still can.”

She should be angry at him for the way he seems so unaffected by the ever-present horror. He’s so fucking privileged and he doesn’t seem to even realise it— but it’s not his fault. _Jon_ is the smug prick keeping him insulated, like Martin is more worthy of protection than the rest of them.

Basira had just exhaled, unimpressed, and that had been the end of that conversation.

In all honesty, Jon had seemed to like the idea about as much as her, only giving in on Martin's insistence. There’s a restlessness to his every movement, and it discomforts her to recognise that restlessness in herself; they both have their goals, and they both want to move towards them.

Now, Jon is sitting cross-legged against a fallen tree-trunk. He doesn’t look like he’s breathing, and his eyes are wide open and unfocused. It’s as though the lack of Martin’s attention has allowed him to shed his skin — all-knowing as he apparently is, there can’t be much humanity left in him.

The longer Basira watches him, the more uneasy she gets. After a few minutes, she can’t bear it anymore, storming over and snapping her fingers in front of his face.

Jon blinks slowly, like a man waking up from a deep sleep. He frowns for a moment, looking for all the world as though she’s just interrupted him in the middle of doing some filing, and then his expression smooths out into blank politeness. It’s insufferable and uncanny all at once.

“Come on,” Basira tells him, jerking her head towards the looming trees.

“What?”

“You wanted me to teach you how to use a gun, didn’t you? Not like I’ve got anything better to do.” She shoots a look at Martin, lying down in the grass and pretending like he can sleep.

Jon’s brow furrows, and he gives her a bemused smile.

“I mean, I’m not sure there’s any point. You’d be better off teaching Martin, really; he’d have more use for it.” His whole expression softens as he follows her gaze. Love in the apocalypse must be nice for some, Basira thinks, rolling her eyes.

“Martin wouldn’t be any good at it,” she points out. “He’s too much of a bleeding heart.”

At that, Jon’s expression flickers into something darker.

“You’d be surprised,” he mutters, barely audible. She’s not even sure she was meant to hear it— and she’s happy enough to pretend that she didn’t. The only reason she’s making nice right now is because she needs to find Daisy, and Jon is her best lead. That’s it. 

“This isn’t a discussion. I’m teaching you, that’s it.”

Jon raises an eyebrow, and she thinks of Elias, sitting across the table in the visiting room of the prison, utterly unbothered by anything she had to say. With some relish, the memory morphs into his bloodied face after Ny-Ålesund, the flicker of fear in his eyes. She could have killed him then, fragile bones bending underneath her hands. Things might have been better if she had.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Basira looks at Jon properly. He’s well-fed, healthy and alert in a way that she hasn’t seen since he ripped a statement fresh from an innocent sailor’s lips and told him to get some rest. He hadn’t seemed repentant then; she’s yet to decide if he’s any more sorry now that he’s destroyed the world. 

Jon opens his mouth, uncertainty flickering across his expression. That awkwardness, at least, is something he _doesn’t_ have in common with Jonah fucking Magnus.

“Come on,” she interrupts, before he can raise any more objections. 

Turning on her heel, she’s viciously gratified — and just a little surprised — to hear Jon stand up and follow her into the woods. The grass rustles underfoot as they walk, signalling their presence to any predators that might be keen for a fresh hunt.

Would Jon protect her, the way he must have been protecting Martin? Basira honestly isn’t sure.

Basira doesn’t bother keeping track of how far they walk. Every so often, Jon makes a noise as though he’s considering speaking, but he never does. That bothers her, and she can’t place why.

“So,” Jon says as she finally stops in a moonlit clearing, sounding amused, “what now?”

To tell the truth, Basira hadn’t expected to get this far— and even if she had, teaching has never been one of her natural talents. She finds herself at a loss; Jon has the gall to look pitying, in that same holier than thou attitude that he’s always had. 

Sort out your gun, she tells herself, scowling. Then sort out everything else.

It might have been meditative once. When she was Sectioned, she’d felt as though her gun was a badge of pride, a weapon against the unseen monsters that the public didn’t know about. After the Unknowing, everyone around her — Melanie, Jon, Elias, Daisy — felt like weapons. All she had to do was to figure out how to use them. Now, the weight of the gun in her hand feels unreal, like the absence of Daisy watching her back. What are weapons worth in a world like this?

Basira loads her gun as quickly as she can, handing it to Jon barrel-first. It’s not like she needs to worry about gun safety with a man who claims he can’t be hurt. His lips quirk up like he’s still reading her mind, but he takes the gun gingerly, adjusting it in his hands as he takes aim at a tree-trunk across the clearing. He has the general idea, in much the same way as anyone who’s watched an action film would, but it’s not going to get him very far if he actually wants to _hit_ what he’s pointing at.

Before she can think about what she’s doing, she steps up and presses a hand to Jon’s arm, wordlessly adjusting his position. His muscles tense— and then he relaxes, exhaling quietly as he follows her wordless guidance, adjusting his stance.

Jon’s skin is warm. He hasn’t been warm since before the coma, before he let himself be rewritten from the inside out. Even after he woke up, he carried the chill of death with him, and she’d just assumed it was his natural state. But no, the instrument of the apocalypse is warm and vital beneath her touch, and that feels as damning as any cheerful claims of omniscience. 

Guiding Jon’s fingers into place around the trigger, Basira presses down— and he fires the gun. The shot is heartbeat-loud in her ears; splinters of tree bark fly across the clearing. 

Basira flinches, an irrational human reflex that she immediately chides herself for allowing. 

Jon, however, remains statue-still. When she glances at his face, he looks— focused. There’s a faint smear of blood where one of the splinters has grazed his cheek, but it doesn’t seem like he even blinked at the pain. His stance is exactly what she guided him into, and all of his dark-eyed intensity is focused on the gun in his hands.

His gaze flickers to her for just a moment, like he’s expecting something from her.

“Good shot,” Basira tells him, the words sour on her tongue. Where she’s still touching him, she can feel Jon relax, and briefly, she considers the possibility that he’d wanted her validation. She scoffs at the thought; it isn’t as though he’s got any reason to look to _her_ for praise. 

She steps away, letting the shivering chill of the forest rush across her skin. There’s no use in trying to theorise about Jon’s motives when she hasn’t had time to gather any information.

“Thank you.” Jon’s voice is quiet, almost resigned.

“Don’t get cocky. It might just have been beginner’s luck.”

“Or perhaps it was your excellent teaching,” Jon counters, smile brightening with a cheerfulness that can only be insincere. It’s almost conspiratorial, and she hates it. 

“Go again,” she orders, before Jon can try and get under her skin any more.

Quick as you please, Jon is firing another shot, then another, until the entire magazine is spent. Every monster within a mile must know where they are, and it’s a waste of precious bullets, but Basira just watches Jon, assessing the sharp focus laced through every muscle of his form.

When he’s done, he exhales, his gaze turning to the ground with familiar tiredness.

“Not for me, I don’t think,” he tells her. With deliberate movements, he turns the gun in his hand until the barrel faces towards him, and passes it back to her. “I don’t believe I’d find much use for it.”

Basira weighs the gun in her hands, feeling where the warmth of Jon’s hands has seeped into the grip. She can feel Jon’s gaze following her movements as she unloads the empty magazine.

“Would you have shot me?” he asks, apropos of nothing. His tone is light and curious, as though it’s a simple question about the weather.

“Would you have let me?” Basira looks back up at him, raising her brows.

Jon smiles, holding up his hands in wordless uncertainty. “I really don’t know, Basira.”

“You’re a mess,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.

Laughing, Jon opens his mouth to reply— only to stop, eyes wide, when she raises the gun and presses it to his chest. The barrel digs into his sternum, snagging on the fabric of his jumper.

“How about now?”

“It’s not loaded,” he says, like that’s any kind of answer to her question. Basira raises the gun higher, setting it against his jawline. His throat works against the metal as he swallows, breaths turned shallow. “Not— not that it isn’t dangerous when it’s empty, of course.”

What does it say about her that she finds some perverse amusement in the fear in Jon’s eyes?

(Daisy would have— the Daisy before the coffin. She would have laughed, the sound knife-sharp in her throat, and followed it up with words that were just as cutting. 

Basira thinks of tracking his movements through this dark forest, and tries to avoid thinking the word _prey.)_

“It’s alright, Basira.” Jon’s expression has softened, panic fading into pity. “You can’t hurt me.”

“All the more reason to try.” It comes out without the bite she’d intended, flat in a way that could almost be mistaken for joking. Jon smiles, raising one eyebrow like he’s trying to goad her.

Placing one hand against the uncanny warmth of his cheek, Basira slides the gun upwards, brushing it across the same rough stubble she can feel below her palm. Gently, testing her limits, she taps the muzzle against his mouth in a silent question. Both of Jon’s eyebrows raise at that, as though she’s somehow managed to catch his mighty omniscience off-guard. He makes a soft, unreadable sound, a quiet exhale of terror or relief. Then, to her surprise, he parts his lips, letting the gun press in against his tongue. 

With Basira’s every slight movement, Jon’s lashes flutter. His hands flutter too, butterfly-quick motions towards her grip that always stop halfway, like he’s trying to resist the impulse to fight her off. She could let him — it’s not like he’d win — but if he’s resisting that reflex…

“Hands behind your back,” she orders. She’s got no rope on her, but she’s not unfamiliar with the concept of honour bondage. It might even work better, given the situation.

Jon hesitates, eyes slipping open to study Basira’s expression. 

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

At that, Jon huffs, though she can’t tell if it’s amusement or annoyance. His movements are languid as he rests his forearms against his spine, placing each of his hands at the crease of the opposite elbow. It looks uncomfortable, but that’s his business — it’s not like she’d specified.

Before she can think better of it, Basira brushes her thumb across Jon’s cheekbone, a wordless reward for doing as she’d asked. He full-body shivers under that single caress, leaning into her like he’s following gravity. His legs sway underneath him.

“You’re a mess, Jon,” she tells him again. 

Jon hums, agreeable, the sound echoing down the barrel and into her fingers.

As slow as she has the patience for, Basira guides him downwards until he’s kneeling in front of her, legs splayed open and mouth still wrapped around the muzzle. It’s eerie, the way he doesn’t resist — it’s more of an effort to stop him dropping too quickly than it is to push him to his knees.

She steps back to look him over, letting her hand drop from his face. There’s a faint flush to his cheeks, only perceptible because she’s looking for it. His eyes have gone half-lidded, and his breathing is slow and even.

“Are you getting off on this?” Basira finds herself asking, caught between disgust and intrigue.

Jon blinks up at her; even when his gaze focuses, it lacks the sharp clarity she’s used to. He makes an uncertain sound, and with an exasperated exhale, Basira eases the gun out of his mouth. The metal is slick and shining with Jon’s spit, his lips as flushed as his cheeks.

“At this point,” he murmurs, voice shot through with wry, hoarse humour, “I’m well within my rights to have my wires crossed.”

“Right.” Not taking her eyes off Jon, she reloads the gun and takes a step forward. Best to be prepared for monsters. “Is it some Eye thing?”

“More— a byproduct. The world and all its nightmares, they feel good—”

“And so do you,” Basira interrupts, lips curling with fresh anger. 

He shrugs, loose-limbed and unworried. Glancing down at himself, he seems almost startled to find himself kneeling. She thinks he’s going to stand up, for a moment, walk back to Martin and pretend this never happened. Instead, he adjusts himself, legs spreading wider in between blades of grass and blood-dark earth.

“It’s not something I can control,” he tells her, something like indignance seeping into his tone. His arms shift against his back, fingers splaying against his forearms, but he doesn’t move away. “This is,” he continues, much quieter.

Stepping forwards, Basira lets her anger seep into her expression. Jon had almost managed to make her forget what he is. She won’t make that mistake again — she can’t afford to.

“You don’t control this,” she tells him, point-blank. “I do.”

Basira’s boots are heavy, practical things. She put them on when she started tracking Daisy, before the world split apart, and they’ve served her well through the apocalypse. She places one foot in between Jon’s legs, watching the way his eyes widen at the pressure.

“Don’t you dare get off,” she tells him, pressing down more heavily.

His gasp — pain or pleasure, she doesn’t really care — is all she needs to shove the gun back between his lips. A trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth; she must have chipped one of his teeth on the metal. So much for not being able to hurt him.

Basira doesn’t spare him the same caution she did earlier; she pushes the barrel in as far as it will go, until she imagines she can feel him swallowing around the muzzle. Maybe if she pushed in further, he’d end up choking on it. If he can bleed, there’s no reason he couldn’t suffocate too.

His eyes aren’t half-lidded anymore, but wide and gleaming with tears. Behind his back, his hands have balled into fists, knuckles turned pale with exertion. And yet—

“You’re still enjoying this, aren’t you,” Basira says flatly. It’s not a question; the answer is clear in the way the gun bobs in his mouth, in the way he shifts underneath her boot. 

He whimpers, plaintive, when she eases up the pressure. When she presses down hard again, his groan can’t be mistaken for anything but gratitude. Funny, really; she told him not to get off, so it stands to reason that he should be more grateful when she relents. Guess he really is a masochist.

“Does Martin know about this?” She ignores whatever answer Jon manages to mumble pathetically around the gun, adjusting her grip so she can press down harder against his tongue. “I didn’t think he’d be the type — but I didn’t think _you_ would be, either.”

It’s entirely possible that Jon tries to respond again, but she cuts him off cleanly by placing her finger on the trigger. He certainly doesn’t have anything to say to _that._

“It’s loaded,” she says, as though he needs the reminder.

Jon blinks away his tears, staring straight up at her with glassy eyes. His expression has fallen slack, a placid acceptance in the downwards curve of his mouth.

Maybe he’s hoping she’ll kill him after all. Basira can’t say she’s not tempted; it would be so fucking easy to pull the trigger, and then… No one misses a monster, as Daisy would say.

“I’m not going to kill you.” It comes out far softer than she’d intended; she scowls at herself, squeezing the trigger just slightly. “None of us are getting the easy way out, so why should you?”

She pulls out the gun just as roughly as she’d pushed it in. It gleams in the moonlight, metal shining and streaked with crimson. As she wipes it down — like hell is she putting _that_ back in her bag — treacherous curiosity guides her gaze to Jon.

Jon’s arms have fallen from behind his back; his fingers dig into the earth like he’s trying to grow roots and stay there forever. He looks exhausted, which is reassuringly familiar. That’s it, then. Whatever masochistic trance he’d been under, it’s over — back to the smug know-it-all routine. 

“Thank you,” he manages once he finally gets his breath back.

She’s struck with the urge to hit him, to slam her gun across his cheekbone and hear the crack of bone and bruises underneath his skin. As Jon makes eye contact with her, she’s just as struck with the certainty that he’d let her, and he wouldn’t even flinch.

Basira turns to leave the clearing, muscles drawn violin-tense. In her peripheral vision, Jon raises his hand to his cheek as though he’s tracing the line she’d brushed with her thumb — or else, chasing the phantom pain of what she’d _wanted_ to do to him.

“Martin’s had enough rest now,” Basira snaps. “Let’s keep moving.”


End file.
